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I was an accidental actor. I was never formally trained.

quote by David Soul
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His Majesty Accident

Accidental meetings,
accidental greetings,
accidental walks,
accidental talks,
accidental questions,
accidental answers..
But…suddenly…
What has happened?
Meetings, greetings,
walks and talks,
questions and answers
stopped being accidental.
Life has become sentimental.
Love has rushed into the circle
and quickly closed it.
Sleepless nights appeared,
calmness disappeared.
“I love you” instead of “hi”,
a wish to inspire,
a stream of desire,
a heart is on fire,
a wish to fly.
His Majesty Accident governs the Land,
playing games that were not planned.
It sometimes gives us another chance:
to live, to love, to be happy and dance.
It sometimes goes up, sometimes down,
it sometimes gives us a crown.
Everyone waits for an accident,
everyone wishes the happy end.

Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)

poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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The Rosciad

Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.

Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay:
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
What can an actor give? In every age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,
And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:
But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat;
Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.
The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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Actor Of Love

Hold on
I have found something I longing for
To fill the hollowness of my heart
But why I'm feeling more of sorrow

Before
I am the one who said: 'Oh, I'll control'
But now I realize you are my world
And it's waiting to break apart

I'm an actor of love
I'm trying to perfect
But I'm just fooling around

I'm an actor of love
I want to be your hero
But I've made myself a clown

I'm an actor of love
I need you by my side
But now you leave me alone

I'm an actor of love
I beg your forgiveness
But you refuse me so cold

Sometimes
We wonder why we should be together
Do we really dream of love forever?
Or we afraid to be alone

I'm an actor of love
I want to protect you
But I always hurt you bad

I'm an actor of love
I want to be your shield
But may turn someone you hate

I'm an actor of love
We kiss in the morning
But in night we have a war

I'm an actor of love
We care for each other
But we only circle round

If this love only makes me crazy
Take the story and just let it be
Tragedy or comedy

[...] Read more

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Forsaking All Others Part 5

I

TRAINED nurses, trained nurses everywhere­
Trained nurses by night, trained nurses by day -
In the corridors, on the stair,
Looking for towels, carrying a tray;
Saying, 'you mustn't,' 'you must,' 'you may.'
Smooth as to hair, stiff as to skirt,
Kind in a cool, impersonal way,­
Angels of mercy, bright-eyed, alert,
Hard young angels, sent to avert
That older angel of dark despair ­
Stiff starched angels, a trifle curt ­
Trained nurses, trained nurses everywhere.

II

A WHITE figure spoke from the doorway
In a tone deliberately bright:
'Would you like to see the patient
For a moment, and say goodnight?'

Shepherded in like a stranger
He stood beside her bed,
Gazed at those pale, blank eyelids
In that carven ivory head.

Took her hand and heard her
Murmur: 'Is that you, Jim?'
But he knew she was very tired ­
Tired even of him.

Too much spent with the struggle
Of drawing breath to afford
A brief smile - utterly weary,
And more than utterly bored.

III

NEVER before had Ruth been out of reach:
Barriers had been - but only of his making.
Now she had passed beyond the power of speech,
Quite, quite indifferent that his heart was breaking.

Here in the bedroom that he used to share
She lived day after day, averse to living,
Indifferent, unforgiving, unaware
That he had any need of her forgiving.

IV

[...] Read more

poem by Alice Duer Miller
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An Accidental Man

(music: marillion lyrics: john helmer)
I was taught from the much too young
To never give myself away
Yes I was taught for every secret
Theres a price you have to pay
An accident of gender
An accident of birth
That holds me to this point of view
This time and place on earth
This time and place on earth
You ask me how Im feeling
I only wish you knew
How hard it is for me to share
Share those kind of things with you
Its not that I dont love you
Its just I cant connect
cause I was taught from much too young
To shine and not reflect
Im an accidental man
You ask me if Im happy
I only wish I knew
cause happiness is not something
That I ever learned to do
Its not that Im complaining
Its all the same to me
If everything that happens, happens
Accidentally
Im an accidental man
I was taught for every secret
Theres a price you have to pay
I was thought from much too young
To never give myself away
I was born to worthy causes
I was born to take the reins
I was taught from much too young
To never give myself away
An accident of gender
An accident of birth
That holds me to this point of view
This time and place on earth
So try and understand if
I dont say all I can
A stranger to myself I am
An accidental man
Im an accident
Im an accidental man

song performed by Marillion
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Wide World of Intellectual Iliteracy-WWII

Slavery Institutionalized Slavery

You didn’t take me away from aplace
You extricated me from a sacred space Me

You developed and trained mu mind
To blend in with your kind
To put you in the fore front
And leave myself behind

My mind was open to assimilation
And closed to self-realization
Education was the agent of control
Substituting society for my soul
An act of self-suicide for the good of the whole

Was it not the great minds of our times that sanctioned
Self hatred
Made the truth oblique
Made education a conditioning process
To obliterate being unique

Seek a role model, seek a hero
Don’t seek being yourself, you are a zero
If education is the answer
It has a function similar to cancer

Americanization another appellation for education

Mind control, behavioral modification
Violence is a form of militaristic communication
I’m a clone, a mere cheap imitation

If I kill it’s because I’m trained
If I hate it’s because I’m trained
If I steal it’s because I’m trained

I don’t know who I am but because I am trained
I Am A Professional

poem by Josephine DixonBanks
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Behind the Scenes

The actor struts his little hour,
Between the limelight and the band;
The public feel the actor's power,
Yet nothing do they understand
Of all the touches here and there
That make or mar the actor's part,
They never see, beneath the glare,
The artist striving after art.
To them it seems a labour slight
Where nought of study intervenes;
You see it in another light
When once you've been behind the scenes.

For though the actor at his best
Is, like a poet, born not made,
He still must study with a zest
And practise hard to learn his trade.
So, whether on the actor's form
The stately robes of Hamlet sit,
Or as Macbeth he rave and storm,
Or plays burlesque to please the pit,

'Tis each and all a work of art,
That constant care and practice means --
The actor who creates a part
Has done his work behind the scenes.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Everything is accidental

Ask. If you are given, it is accidental.
Search. If you have found, it is accidental.
Knock. If it is open, it is the accidental.
Without any prayer too, you might get
With prayer too, you might miss.
17.11.2007

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Alchemical Passes for Father and Son - Turning Thighs to Diamonds - In Three Passes

FIRST PASS

Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9

No blame shall stain us now, father.

The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught,
a floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone
is still our house; a bat, a ball, a mitt,
hard rules of the game mean to undo all
lust for dark heaven shunning shining girls.

I was reaching for god then - not your fault - a lavender
boy early befriended by crows, already resigned to what
was given and what was to come, a softball between the
eyes, your attempt to guide me toward those diamond
thighs which, you often repeated, were everywhere waiting.

I blink still before you, head down, focused on 'Lion's Teeth.' **
I am your hard mystery, and soft, not so fast for I am fat
and cannot round the bases quick. I am your inherited meek,
a burden to shake into a sliding man furious for home.

At four I pluck a wild strawberry you point to,
all authority and accidental grace, revealing much,
still dew wet, sticky to the touch, opening sourness
deserving my frown. You laugh at my dawning smile
for its sweetness slowly yielding, a surprise gift
for what will always unite us, your fear that I will
suffer, too, your fate, untended desire gone to wildness
brought low beneath branches, slow embrace of
cradle-gentle boughs entangling legs and light
between the greater shadows,

and shadows shall win the day.

In them my yearning grows yet,
remains for that of edges,
what is beyond them or beneath,
planets arcing and comets rare,
trailing lovers to come but meteors,
not the appointed stars of permanence
allowed to some men's hands,
and never to the fallen.

Still, these essential things are caught
for all our mostly wasted days of practice,

[...] Read more

poem by Warren Falcon
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Seated Within Barriers

Where was I 'trained'?
To use my brain?
To realize it had a better use...
Than to sit enclosed
And left not to expose itself,
To receive, perceive and deliver?

Limited to conditions,
I was not.
Disciplined with responsibility...
Came from my parents,
Who initiated my awakening.
And on many levels.

I felt restricted by depictions...
Of where I should be,
By those who were 'degreed'
To regurgitate philosophies,
That did not reflect...
A life in the projects.
I quite loved and accepted.

Where was I 'trained'?
To use my brain?
From teachers who attempted,
To keep me seated within barriers.
The ones selected to keep me subservient,
And self rejecting!
Somehow those lessons of limitation,
Activated my dreams!
The moment I discovered,
I desired to rush to be with those I loved...
While others were rushing to impress,
With the best of their redundancy!
I was being instructed to open my eyes.
Listen with my ears.
And observe the steps...
Of those who feared to adventure their own destinies.

I was 'trained' to watch them.
Learn to enjoy the taste of bitterness.
Forgive but not condone ignorance...
Whether mine or some outside affliction,
Meant to keep my life deluded!

Where was I 'trained'?
To use my brain?
Learning how to fly high from my nest.
Before any sign of wings came to sprout.
I was taught to figure it out.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Shells Cracked

So accustomed to opposing,
That which is formally addressed...
And yet,
Nothing from those who do this is proposed...
To compare or express with submitted suggestions.

So accustomed to opposing,
That which is formally addressed...
And yet,
Nothing from those who do this is proposed...
Except,
More nuts they show with their shells cracked.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Fourth Book

THEY met still sooner. 'Twas a year from thence
When Lucy Gresham, the sick semptress girl,
Who sewed by Marian's chair so still and quick,
And leant her head upon the back to cough
More freely when, the mistress turning round,
The others took occasion to laugh out,–
Gave up a last. Among the workers, spoke
A bold girl with black eyebrows and red lips,–
'You know the news? Who's dying, do you think?
Our Lucy Gresham. I expected it
As little as Nell Hart's wedding. Blush not, Nell,
Thy curls be red enough without thy cheeks;
And, some day, there'll be found a man to dote
On red curls.–Lucy Gresham swooned last night,
Dropped sudden in the street while going home;
And now the baker says, who took her up
And laid her by her grandmother in bed,
He'll give her a week to die in. Pass the silk.
Let's hope he gave her a loaf too, within reach,
For otherwise they'll starve before they die,
That funny pair of bedfellows! Miss Bell,
I'll thank you for the scissors. The old crone
Is paralytic–that's the reason why
Our Lucy's thread went faster than her breath,
Which went too quick, we all know. Marian Erle!
Why, Marian Erle, you're not the fool to cry?
Your tears spoil Lady Waldemar's new dress,
You piece of pity!'
Marian rose up straight,
And, breaking through the talk and through the work,
Went outward, in the face of their surprise,
To Lucy's home, to nurse her back to life
Or down to death. She knew by such an act,
All place and grace were forfeit in the house,
Whose mistress would supply the missing hand
With necessary, not inhuman haste,
And take no blame. But pity, too, had dues:
She could not leave a solitary soul
To founder in the dark, while she sate still
And lavished stitches on a lady's hem
As if no other work were paramount.
'Why, God,' thought Marian, 'has a missing hand
This moment; Lucy wants a drink, perhaps.
Let others miss me! never miss me, God!'

So Marian sat by Lucy's bed, content
With duty, and was strong, for recompense,
To hold the lamp of human love arm-high
To catch the death-strained eyes and comfort them,
Until the angels, on the luminous side

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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Thespis: Act I

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

GODS

Jupiter, Aged Diety
Apollo, Aged Diety
Mars, Aged Diety
Diana, Aged Diety
Mercury

THESPIANS

Thespis
Sillimon
TimidonTipseion
Preposteros
Stupidas
Sparkeio n
Nicemis
Pretteia
Daphne
Cymon

ACT I - Ruined Temple on the Summit of Mount Olympus

[Scene--The ruins of the The Temple of the Gods, on summit of
Mount Olympus. Picturesque shattered columns, overgrown with
ivy, etc. R. and L. with entrances to temple (ruined) R. Fallen
columns on the stage. Three broken pillars 2 R.E. At the back of
stage is the approach from the summit of the mountain. This
should be "practicable" to enable large numbers of people to
ascend and descend. In the distance are the summits of adjacent
mountains. At first all this is concealed by a thick fog, which
clears presently. Enter (through fog) Chorus of Stars coming off
duty as fatigued with their night's work]

CHO. Through the night, the constellations,
Have given light from various stations.
When midnight gloom falls on all nations,
We will resume our occupations.

SOLO. Our light, it's true, is not worth mention;
What can we do to gain attention.
When night and noon with vulgar glaring
A great big moon is always flaring.

[During chorus, enter Diana, an elderly goddess. She is carefully
wrapped up in cloaks, shawls, etc. A hood is over her head, a
respirator in her mouth, and galoshes on her feet. During the

[...] Read more

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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An actor is an actor is an actor. The less personality an actor has off stage the better. A blank canvas on which to draw the characters he plays.

quote by Arthur Lowe
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My dad had been an actor... not only had my dad been an actor, but his dad had been an actor, and my great-grandfather had been an actor. And who knows before then?

quote by David Hyde Pierce
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My Cat

Cool cat
Good cat
Pussy cat

When I see him walking
Makes no sense to me
My cat is everywhere
We watch him on TV

My cat is amazing
He can play the guitar
He may not be an actor
But he's a pussy superstar

My cat
Cool cat

My cat is everywhere
Sees what he can see
He may not be an actor
He acts atrociously

My cat is amazing
He can play the guitar
He may not be an actor
But he's a pussy superstar

My cat isn't crazy
He's everything to me
My cat burns the bible
And he thinks it's so funny

He isn't very good
He isn't very smart
He may not be Picasso
But he is a work of art

Hates me as much as I hate you

My cat
Cool cat
Good cat
Pussy cat

When I see him walking
Makes no sense to me
My cat is everywhere
We watch him on TV

My cat is amazing

[...] Read more

song performed by Jack Off Jill from Sexless Demons And Scars
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The Haughty Actor

AN actor - GIBBS, of Drury Lane -
Of very decent station,
Once happened in a part to gain
Excessive approbation:
It sometimes turns a fellow's brain
And makes him singularly vain
When he believes that he receives
Tremendous approbation.

His great success half drove him mad,
But no one seemed to mind him;
Well, in another piece he had
Another part assigned him.
This part was smaller, by a bit,
Than that in which he made a hit.
So, much ill-used, he straight refused
To play the part assigned him.

THAT NIGHT THAT ACTOR SLEPT, AND I'LL ATTEMPT
TO TELL YOU OF THE VIVID DREAM HE DREAMT.

THE DREAM.

In fighting with a robber band
(A thing he loved sincerely)
A sword struck GIBBS upon the hand,
And wounded it severely.
At first he didn't heed it much,
He thought it was a simple touch,
But soon he found the weapon's bound
Had wounded him severely.

To Surgeon COBB he made a trip,
Who'd just effected featly
An amputation at the hip
Particularly neatly.
A rising man was Surgeon COBB
But this extremely ticklish job
He had achieved (as he believed)
Particularly neatly.

The actor rang the surgeon's bell.
"Observe my wounded finger,
Be good enough to strap it well,
And prithee do not linger.
That I, dear sir, may fill again

[...] Read more

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Habits are comforts

To listen to the tunes that
Your ears are trained on,
To look at things that
Your eyes are trained on,
And to tread the way that
Your feet are trained in
Will appear sweet to you.
Habits bring comfort zones.
01.01.07

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Containment Protocol Initiated

Military will shoot kill civilians
orders are orders
if that's what they are ordered to do?

Training is training
follow orders through and through
that's what we are trained to do?

Military will shoot kill civilians
if ordered to do so?
We are trained to follow orders?

The penalty for not follower orders
in combat... death by firing squad?
Would you follow orders? Do you?

We are trained to follow orders?

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Fireflies In The Dark

like fireflies in the dark,
those who stand firm are taken,
stamped, and put out...

you silence the human cries
of freedom, ban books,
ideas... ban all thinking.

take anything original
back to the assembly line;
to be remade, reformed....

in the image of mindless
obedience... trained to kill,
trained to follow... trained to hate.

while the lovers of trees, rivers,
and mountains... become
the new faceless minority....

in the land of coal dust excess,
the land of black and white tv.

poverty, disease, and drug abuse
will thin the ranks of the rebellious.
and children without hope

bury their children in dumpsters.
while the angry poets rage
having spent more, done more time...

in your prisons than in college.
and dead mothers walk the streets
crying bitter tears that fall unseen.

poem by Eric Cockrell
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